We were at the YMCA doing his homework. Writing sentences using words like “about” and “worry.” I just heated up a little plastic tray of macaroni and cheese for his dinner in the downstairs microwave.

“So what ever happened with that girl you like?”

“Ashley.”

“Yeah. Is she your girlfriend yet?”

“No.”

“She hasn’t asked you yet?”

“No.” He told me last week that was his plan, to wait until she asks him instead of he asking her. “But she asked me if I like her.”

“What did you say?”

“Yes. Then she asked me if I liked her as a girlfriend or just regular. I said girlfriend. She went like this.”

He shrinks into himself, cowering.

“She was scared?”

“Yeah. She doesn’t want her parents to know she’s with a boy,” he says. “She also thinks if a boy touches her she’ll get a wart.”

“You know, this chick sounds like she might be more trouble than she’s worth.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “But I’m not going to ask her to marry me or anything.”